


A Private Place

by glinda4thegood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-12
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samuel Campbell knows why he can't remember</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Place

_**FIC Supernatural: A Private Place**_  
Title: **A Private Place**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**  
Characters: Samuel Campbell and family, Azazel  
Warning: Intimation of incest  
Summary: Samuel Campbell knows why he can't remember

Samuel sits with his back against a tree. The grassy meadow, ink black under moonless night, is only a few minutes walk from the place he calls his _base._

He lifts a bottle to his lips. Half a swallow remains, disappears. Samuel tosses the bottle, carelessly, into long grass where it vanishes like a missive given over to ocean.

  
 _dark night, under stars_

No word comes from Crowley, only silence where there had been demand. Whispers say the Winchester boys did for the King of Hell, the boys and the freakish angel. His grandsons, both of them still alive, will probably come for him next.

 _Dean knows,_ Samuel thinks. Dean knows about the deal with Crowley now, knows why Samuel Campbell did the things he did. From Dean's reaction, Samuel thinks he guesses everything. What insanity moves him to tell Dean _the one difference between us, you know how to live without her._

Dean is no stranger to lies, but the boy is blind slow around family. Samuel wonders how long it will be before Dean questions the logic of the story he's been told. Crowley pulls Sam from the pit, and Samuel from Heaven? Even the freak angel misses the absurdity of this tale.

It is no lie to say he remembers nothing after his death.

Sam tells him, early in their hunting partnership, of Dean's experience and memories of hell. Sam has no such memories of hell or the cage, he says. Samuel has no memories at all of the interval between death and life, then and now. Unspoken between them is the assumption their experiences are somehow superior to Dean's.

As Samuel hunts monsters, with monsters, for monsters, this assumption fades. He is a hunter and he knows his shit, knows when the clues don't add up. Dean makes sense to Samuel. Strength, passion, arrogance, anger, the boy's character makes sense, even if he is nearly a stranger. Dean is a hunter, from a family of hunters. Samuel wishes he could have spent the last year with Dean, instead of the man that hunts and kills and fucks like a wild animal.

Sam never questions Crowley's motives.

Samuel never questions why Crowley offers Mary's life instead of Deanna's.

  
 _dark night, under stars, crouched on dirt_

Invisible water rides cool air, touches warm ground, and reveals itself. Ground fog rises from the treeline around the meadow.

How many demons cross his path before Azazel jumps his bones in the Walsh home? One, in all his years of hunting. Twentieth century hunting is a different game, Samuel thinks. It is the calm before the storm that sweeps into the twenty-first century, then rages past the End of Days.

He argues with other hunters during a rare stop at the road house, over beer and shots, whether the souls of the possessed are driven out, or remain trapped by evil. The literature is inconclusive, and no hunter remembers anyone surviving a possession. Consensus is no soul remains, and quick death is the best and only cure for possession. Samuel wonders, with their staggering lack of imagination, how so many hunters survive long enough to reproduce.

Azazel. Yes, he knows the name as well as his own. Darkness takes him in an instant, then consumes his mind, illuminating with blackness all that he contains, all that he is. Cold, malevolent consciousness shares its pleasure at the contents of his mind. _So much here I can use._

The squatting horror who holds his strings is a master puppeteer. His body moves, his face conveys emotion, his mouth parrots words. The puppet sounds like him, moves like him, fools the others, because it is him, Samuel thinks. It is all of him, except the part that screams and prays, the part Azazel holds walled away, impotent.

Azazel drops the act and takes the spotlight before it stabs him in the gut, before it breaks Deanna's neck. Samuel feels the burn in his stomach, the delicate bones snap under brutal strength untempered by humanity. _Cow. Meat._ Azazel enjoys the look on her face, then all thought of Deanna is gone. His business is with Mary.

They find her with John Winchester. Parking in the dark with a boy. Azazel shares his glee. _My favorite, and is she a bad girl, Samuel? She's your favorite too. I see it. Strong as she is, perhaps I erred in taking you out of the game. We could have put my child in her together._

Another neck breaks. Samuel does not shrink from this memory. John Winchester comes back, after all, sires two sons on his girl. Mary lives another ten years, becomes a wife and mother. Both play their part in the demon's game.

Samuel listens as Azazel pitches the deal to his daughter, knows he is already dead. He wants to tell her _no! Let the boy die, make a deal to save your father. Save your own family. It's all about family, Mary._

Except when it isn't. Samuel sees Dean's face behind the bars of Crowley's cell. It has never been about family, only about her. _Jealous of your own wife,_ Azazel whispers, _bond between mother and daughter so strong. Something you can't share?_

This is the classic tell of demonic influence, Samuel thinks. Warp truth into lie. Bend lie until it touches truth. Poor Deanna, lover, constant companion, mother, who lies dead on the floor of their kitchen. She gives her life, fighting for her family. No second chance exists for her. No one asks for a second chance, for her.

  
 _dark night, under stars, crouched on dirt, tongue between her lips_

Low movement disturbs the meadow. Red eyes peer above the grass then withdraw. Fox in someone's hen house, Samuel thinks. He touches the gun lying next to his leg.

Crowley says he'll bring Mary back, as he's brought Samuel back. It doesn't take him long to doubt the jumped up crossroads King of Hell has that kind of access to Heaven. But Samuel can't throw the chance away, if there's any chance at all. If he looks her in the eyes and explains about Azazel, then he can be at peace.

Samuel remembers Mary's face when she says yes, remembers Azazel's shout of triumph. She offers her mouth without hesitation, and it is Azazel who tells his body to respond, to harden, to kiss her in a way he never kisses Deanna.

She is his daughter, flesh and blood, his treasure to shelter, protect and train. Held mute, Samuel rages against the demon, screams at the whispers. Impossible to tell where he ends and the demon begins. Impossible to tell if this desire has always lived in his depths, or if contagion from the demon creates the desire.

  
 _dark night, under stars, crouched on dirt, tongue between her lips, nipple caught between two fingers_

Azazel loves the smell of blood. Samuel's shirt is drenched with blood. Pain from the wound in his stomach claws, but is a lesser sensation compared with the demon's pleasure. Samuel remembers Mary's mouth under his invading tongue, remembers the sound she makes as his hand slides into the gap of her blouse and traps a nipple, hard, between his fingers.

Headlights flash across their backs. Dean shouts. Azazel knows the Colt is coming, but he is finished collecting his prize. He turns Samuel's head, losing contact with Mary's mouth. The demon flees, laughing.

Samuel tumbles.

  
 _dark night, under stars, crouched on dirt_

He wonders if they will come for him soon, his grandsons. He wonders if he should save them the trouble. Samuel touches the gun again and watches black grass move like water in a memory.

It is no lie to say he remembers nothing after his death. Samuel knows the reason for this, now. The moments before his death create such a perfect hell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 _Thy beauty shall no more be found,  
Nor, in the marble vault, shall sound  
My echoing song; then worms shall try  
That long preserv'd virginity,  
And your quaint honour turn to dust,  
And into ashes all my lust.  
The grave's a fine and private place,  
But none I think do there embrace._  
To His Coy Mistress - Andrew Marvell


End file.
